The Gift of Christmas
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Sherlock Holmes finds his first Christmas sharing rooms in Baker Street presents him with something of a problem...
1. Part One: Christmas 1881

_**The Gift of Christmas**_

_**Part One: Christmas 1881**_

The problem with Mycroft is that he always believes he is right.

I grant that he may my superior in the art of observation and deduction, but in the art of _common sense_, I fear he is somewhat lacking. Because a thing is thus in theory does not make it so in practice. Cold logic at times can be no substitute for a warm heart, especially on those occasions when we find ourselves at odds with the multitude of the population. I refer, of course, in this respect to our attitudes to the celebration of Christmas.

Left to my own inclination, I should take to my bed on Christmas Eve and stay there until the midnight bells have chimed away Boxing Day. Good King Wenceslas may have looked out on the Feast of Stephen, but the weather tends to be inclement at this time of year and those foolhardy enough to be throwing open their windows risk a lungful of freezing fog followed by rampant bronchitis. Pull down the blinds, throw the coals on the fire and bask in sub-tropical temperatures. Failing that, a copious supply of tobacco and a blanket never fails to satisfy.

Had we been blessed with a father who was as solicitous of his pounds as he was his comforts, I should have been able to pass a tolerable Christmas alone. However, finding the kitty empty, I was forced in the early part of this year to seek alternative accommodation. Baker Street, whilst being neither wholly unrespectable nor entirely fashionable, had one redeeming feature: cheapness of rent.

I am told that Mr William Pitt the Younger and that _doyenne_ of the stage, Mrs Sarah Siddons, once lived somewhere in this same street – although I have my doubts that they ever set foot in this house. If they had, I am certain the rent would have been doubled and the landlady would have plied us with tales about 'that being _her_ chair, you know' or '_he_ died in that bed, he did', as if sleeping on a dead man's mattress is something to be recommended.

I say 'us' because I found myself in the embarrassing situation of needing assistance with the rent, meagre though it was. I am told this is the popular thing to do in these modern times of rising prices and overcrowding. In truth, I had my misgivings. I cherish my privacy and my space. I have never had to share anything, not even with my brother, who being my elder was grown up and gone before I ever understood what being underfoot meant.

As it happened, I consider myself fortunate. Watson has proved to an amiable fellow, who has showed a pleasing interest in my work. There was even talk of his making my merits known to the public, an effort which I suppose I should find complimentary, but which rather fills me with a sense of dread.

One hears these tales of fellows who were misfortunate enough to get their names in the papers plagued for the rest of their lives by fawning women and admiring gentlemen, wishing by association to acquire that glow of fame as if it were some sort of exotic disease, sought by many and caught by a rare few in their lifetimes and even more in their deaths.

Well, we shall see. I predict limited interest, which would suit me well enough, for there is danger in over-exposure. I am even told now that Shakespeare has become too famous for his own good, so that his very existence is questioned. It is to be expected, for it is the nature of mankind to doubt genius. Should my fame spread too far and wide, I suspect the same fate shall befall me.

I mention this because it is part and parcel of the same problem. We rub along so comfortably, me with my work and Watson with his rumblings, that I am loath to disturb the equilibrium. Could I find another so tolerable and tolerant? I doubt it. We have adjusted to each other's 'eccentricities' well enough, although for my part I am heartily glad that dog of his with its infernal barking had the good grace to get itself run over and thus ended all of our misery.

For myself, this has meant that I have been forced to think beyond my own limited horizons. There was a time when I would have happily whiled away the small hours with some sweet or sorrowful melody, but now I am mindful that others are trying to sleep. I keep the smells to a minimum and my vices to myself. Overall, I fear I have become _domesticated_.

From here, it can only lead to thoughts of one's own hearth and the accoutrements of wife and children that goes with it. This condition I am determined to resist with every ounce of my being. To keep the bedevilment from my door, I surround myself with mess and every now and then allow my darker moods to get the better of me. As rebellions go, it is small but significant, keeping the spectre of eligibility from my door without driving a wedge between myself and my fellow lodger.

For this reason, I never expected so minor an inconvenience as Christmas to cause such ripples in our otherwise harmonious existence. I noticed the warning signs at the beginning of December, when there came talk of how well dressed a home always appears with evergreens. I was slow to dismiss such notions at the time, but now it seems, I did so at my peril.

Unbeknownst to me, my apathy was taken as tacit approval. Before I knew what was happening, I was knee-deep in holly, ivy, rosemary and pine. A large piece of berry-decked mistletoe appeared above the sitting room door, and there was talk of Christmas cards and presents and the merits of turkey over goose. My reluctance to cause offence had unknowingly unleashed a Christmas fiend.

This then was the reason for my flight to the Diogenes Club on a chill Christmas Eve in 1881 to consult my brother over this unexpected development. I needed advice, and, delicate matter that it was, I reasoned that it was best kept within the family. In any case, it had to be Mycroft; after all, who else would either sympathise or understand my particular problem?

_**Brotherly advice to follow in Part Two!**_


	2. Part Two: Mycroft Advises

_**The Gift of Christmas**_

_**Part Two: Mycroft Advises**_

As usual, Mycroft was to be found in the small chamber overlooking Pall Mall that he had secured for himself by virtue of his being a founder member. I have always suspected there was more to this particular story than that, but since my brother remains silent on the subject, I am left with mere idle speculation.

"What do you make of these fellows, Sherlock?" said he, gesturing for me to join him. In the street down below, a group of musicians, waits as they are commonly called at this time of year, were giving an energetic rendition of _'We Three Kings'_. "A curious group, wouldn't you agree?"

"Cobblers," said I.

His expression became one of censure. "No need to take that attitude, old boy."

"I mean they're shoemakers, Mycroft."

"Ah, I see. You slipped into the vernacular. You deduced that from the much repaired state of their boots and the calluses on their hands caused by the handle of the leatherwork's hammer, no doubt."

"That, and the board in front of them saying that they are collecting for 'The Shoemenders' Benevolent Society'," said I with some impatience.

Mycroft winced. "I had hoped you would look beyond the obvious, brother."

"I fear I'm in something of a hurry. I need..." The words caught in my throat. "I need your advice."

I do not like to admit that some times I find myself in a situation that has left me quite confused, but on occasion it does happen. Coming to Mycroft means acknowledging and bowing to his greater experience, which I allow his seven year advantage does bestow. It also means that he gets a chance to lord it over me, which is why I reserve consulting him as a last resort.

"Then you have come to the right man," said he, his eyes gleaming like those of a hungry cat. "Do sit, Sherlock, and let me have the details."

He gestured to the chair opposite his, where he settled himself with a sigh of the deepest satisfaction, folded his hands across his chest and let his eyelids droop. I took this as my invitation to begin.

"It's a personal matter," I began.

His eyes opened abruptly. "It isn't money again, is it? Only I'm a little short myself."

"No, nothing like that. The fact of the matter is that I returned to my rooms earlier to find holly and ivy draped about the place."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Holly and Ivy," said he thoughtfully. "Do you mean those two young waitresses at the Café Royal? Nice girls, although a trifle forward, I thought. The last time I was there with Old Matthews, they called him a 'Little Devil'. And he a man of ninety-three! I do wonder about him though. I caught him once in the broom cupboard with Mrs Hackett, the cleaning lady. Said he was inspecting the state of her bristles. I ask you!"

I shook my head. Sometimes my brother takes what I say far too literally.

"Mycroft, don't be dense. I mean, holly and ivy, _evergreens_."

His expression fell. "And there I thought I was about to off-load you onto a wife. Formby-ffoukes – that's with the small 'f', mark you, never confuse him with the Ffoukes-Formbys of East Chudleigh, he gets most annoyed – was telling me he saved nearly a thousand a year since his younger brother got married."

"Sorry to disappoint you," said I. "I have no such plans. As for costing you a thousand a year, you exaggerate."

"Yes," he sighed. "I'm sure it's closer to _two_ thousand."

"Back to my problem, I found this." I took from my pocket the sprig of mistletoe that had formerly been hanging over the sitting room door. "Well? What do I do with it?"

Mycroft sat forward in his chair, an air of earnestness about his demeanour. "Sherlock, I am glad this has come up. Many years ago, you asked me why the Good Lord had created girls and I said I would explain when you were older. Well, I dare say you are old enough to know." He cleared his throat. "I have something to tell you which I know will come as a shock. You were not left on the doorstep by the fairies as a baby, despite all rumours to the contrary. Father and Mother came to an arrangement and–"

"Mycroft, I know all this."

He looked faintly surprised. "You do? Well, that is a relief. I never wanted to be the one to break it to you. I still can't quite believe it myself."

"Nor am I ignorant as to the custom with mistletoe."

"Not by practical experiment, I trust," said he, his eyes narrowing. "The fact you happen to be carrying it about with you makes me suspect the worse. Sorry to disappoint you, brother, but there are no women here if you plan to practise your dubious ways."

"I found it in my rooms. This fellow I'm sharing with—"

"The doctor."

"Yes, Watson. He did this. I'm starting to suspect that he's one of those people who like to celebrate Christmas. In the _traditional _fashion."

Mycroft grimaced. "Good heavens, what an appalling thought. Whatever are you going to do?"

"That's what I'm here to ask you."

He took a moment to take a pinch of snuff and consider his response. "It seems to me," said he at last, "that since you pay half the rent, you are perfectly entitled to have equal say in the appearance of the shared portions of the house. You must put your foot down with a firm hand. Better to do it now than later. Tell him to remove all greenery and restrict festive decorations to his own quarters."

"On what grounds?"

"Whatever grounds you think appropriate. Say you have consulted a lawyer."

"Whoever heard of anyone consulting a lawyer over Christmas decorations?"

"You would be surprised, Sherlock. Great Uncle Roderick once sued a man for sending him a Christmas card, on the grounds that 'Tidings of Comfort and Joy' were unquantifiable. He argued it was meaningless, given that neither could be guaranteed."

I shook my head. "No, Mycroft, it will not do."

"Then blame the family. Say that your ancestors were staunch Parliamentarians, who backed the abolition of Christmas and never allowed a vestige of the old ways to cross their thresholds. Furthermore tell him that it is still an offence under law of this land to eat mince pies and, that should he do so, you will have no option but to send for the police."

"What nonsense."

He was studying his hands with the greatest of care when next he spoke. "Well, in that case, you could simply tell him that you don't like it."

"I can't do that."

"Why?" he asked abruptly.

I was aware that I was under close scrutiny. "Because I do not wish to cause offence."

"Ah."

The way he said it invited further explanation, and I felt obliged to reply.

"The decorations are not the problem. These I can tolerate. It is only until Twelfth Night, after all. If this the worse I have to contend with, then I can think myself fortunate, because in all other ways he is bearable as a fellow lodger and there were doubtless people with far worse vices, myself included."

Mycroft sat up in his chair and regarded me over his steepled fingers. "Then what, Sherlock, are you asking me?"

_**Yes, Mr Holmes, what **_**are **_**you trying to say? Find out in Part Three!**_


	3. Part Three: Sherlock Holmes' Dilemma

_**The Gift of Christmas**_

_**Part Three: Sherlock Holmes' Dilemma**_

Such things are never easy to say, not least to one's own brother. Mycroft would be alarmed, appalled and sadly grieved by what I was about to tell him. I could not blame him. I felt thoroughly ashamed to have to be broaching the topic at all.

"My problem," I admitted, "is one of etiquette. Coming from a family of avowed eccentrics, accepted practice amongst 'normal' people is not something we have ever openly discussed."

Mycroft nodded sagely. "T'would have been sacrilege to do otherwise."

"And 'normal' people celebrate Christmas."

"So I have been told. Second cousin Tobias tried being 'normal' once at Christmas, purely for the novelty of it. Put a tree in his dining room, decorated it baubles and the such like, only to become the scorn of society."

"That was because he bought an oak sapling instead of a pine."

"Just so. That is the problem with trying to be 'normal'. One can never trump convention. And who the devil would want to? Normal people live and die unnoticed in their thousands. One should be unique, not like everybody else. Well, Sherlock," said he, his diatribe coming to an end, "if you find yourself untroubled by festive decorations, what on earth can be the matter?"

"Christmas gifts. I fear Watson may have got something for me. He has had the manic look of the zealous buyer in his eye since the end of November. I happened to mention that I had mislaid the nutcrackers the other day and without hesitation he said: 'So you like nuts, do you?'"

"Do you?" asked Mycroft. "That does surprise me, Sherlock. Personally, I could never abide the things, not after witnessing that trick Great Aunt Theodora used to do, removing her false eye and putting a walnut shell in its place." He shook his head, grimacing at the memory. "However, your problem is a serious one. You stand on the very precipice of disaster. You do realise that how you conduct yourself with regards to this matter will determine the nature of your future standing with this fellow? If I am to help you, I must have the truth, however painful it may be. Now, how would you describe this Dr Watson?"

"Well, he's rather shorter than me, middle-sized, has a modest moustache—"

"I'm not asking about his physical appearance."

"No. Well, he's..." I sought vainly for the correct word. "Decent."

"That is as bland a description as one may hope for from the average police constable, Sherlock. I expect better from you. Come, brother, what aren't you telling me?"

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"You know perfectly well what I mean and yet you refuse to acknowledge it, either to me or yourself. Out with, sir, let us have no more of this shilly-shallying for question!"

"In that case, I find him tolerable."

"Ah."

"Amiable, perhaps."

"Ah."

"Oh, very well, I find his company stimulating," I said, growing thoroughly vexed with him. "There, Mycroft. Are you satisfied? Now you can stop saying 'Ah' in that singularly meaningless fashion."

"You have put my mind to rest. Gracious me, for one moment I thought you were about to use the 'f' word."

"What, 'friend'?"

Mycroft let out a groan of dismay. "Keep your voice down, Sherlock. I have a reputation to maintain. Should word get out that my brother entertains such sociable notions, I should be the laughing stock of the club." He eyed me with no small measure of concern. "He's not, is he? A friend, I mean."

I cannot speak for other families, but it has come to bear upon me of late that perhaps mine are a trifle over-zealous in extolling the virtues of the misanthropic life. I do not say they are wholly wrong, but I have come to believe that with a little care it is possible to cultivate one or two acquaintanceships without it becoming burdensome for either party. Not that I was about to admit this to my brother; I had no wish to send him into an apoplexy this side of Christmas when finding a goose that lays golden eggs would be easier than finding a doctor willing to leave his warm hearth.

My response, therefore, was suitably vague.

"I prefer to think of him a valued companion."

"Thank heavens for that," said he, heaving a sigh of relief. "I worry about you sometimes, brother. You take too much after Cousin Aubrey. Never was there a fellow who had so many friends, and look what happened to him – barking mad before he was forty. Now, to business, does this fellow have much in the way of money?"

"He is in receipt of a small pension."

"Then we may safely say that if he has bought you something, he has likely not spent much. I should say from an observation of your habits... how observant is he, by the way?"

"About average, I should say."

"Then in all probability you shall receive something wholly unsuitable. I am told it is the thought that counts, although what that thought might be is rather less complimentary. In such cases, the done thing is to be gracious and not to express your disappointment."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Now, if there is one thing worse than receiving a gift at Christmas, it is not having something to give in exchanged. You must plan for all contingencies in these cases. Therefore, Sherlock, you must buy something. As to what you should it should be, it is important not to appear either over-generous, which can lead to embarrassment all round, nor too thrifty, since the value of the gift may be said to be a reflection of the value of the acquaintanceship. Does he drink?"

"No more than most."

"Beer or wine?"

"Both."

"Indiscriminate in his tastes then. Therefore, you would be advised to purchase a moderately-priced bottle of wine, something which your own palate can tolerate in case he suggests you share it with him. A word of caution, brother. Do not be over eager to impart your gift. Let him show his hand first. If you have misjudged the situation and it transpires that he has bought you nothing, then the effects can be disastrous for the reasons I have explained. You will cause more offence than if you had bought nothing. I trust that answers your question."

It did, and in a singularly cold and logical manner. It accounted for the unimaginative gifts I had received over the years as a child: dictionaries when other children got picture books, oranges where others got bon-bons, and a clip around the ear when I dared to complain.

I could not fault his reasoning, however, and it seemed to me that I could worse than to follow his advice. I left Mycroft, made my purchase and returned to Baker Street. On entering the sitting room, I nearly collided with a chair set up in the doorway, on which Watson was stood, with yet another sprig of mistletoe in his hand.

"It's the strangest thing where the last piece got to," he explained when I asked him what he was doing. "I was sure it was there earlier. You didn't see what happened to it, I suppose?"

I denied all knowledge of the missing mistletoe and made a mental note to dispose safely of the incriminating evidence at a later date. I watched as he reached up and winced.

"Confound this shoulder," said he, his hand straying to his old injury. "It's playing me merry hell today."

"Here, let me," I offered. As loath as I was to encourage the festooning of the room with greenery, I was concerned by the grey pallor that had come to his face. The mistletoe was duly put in place, and Watson smiled approvingly at my efforts.

"Much better," said he. "You never you know, Holmes, you might get a pretty client over Christmas."

"Let us hope that Mrs Hudson does not get the wrong idea."

He chuckled. "Are you going out again?"

"No, I have made my final errand and am now at home for the rest of the evening."

"Good. I hoped you would be."

I gathered he had something in mind that involved my being present. I offered a silent prayer that it did not involve the donning of absurd paper hats or parlour games; while I was prepared to tolerate some of the worst excesses of the Christmas season, I had my limits.

By the time I had changed, I entered a room that had been muted by the dancing glow of candlelight. The table had been laid with a supper that would have put old King Hal to shame. Any hopes I had entertained for a quiet time were quickly evaporating before the warmth of Watson's enthusiasm.

"You are hungry?" he inquired.

"Well," I said, eyeing the salmon that was enough to feed a family of ten, let alone two bachelors.

"What we don't finish, Mrs Hudson said she can make into fish pie."

"Did she?" I said bleakly, taking my seat. The prospect of fish and poultry leftovers featuring continually at mealtime over the next few weeks was not one that I greatly relished.

"Probably it's too much," Watson was saying when I drew my attention back from my thoughts. "But if you can't indulge at Christmas, when can you?"

That word 'indulge' worried me. My own intake at the best of times is sparing; Watson by comparison, when the mood takes him, knows no bounds. I make allowances, since he has hinted in the past that army life did not lend itself to fine cuisine and his own deprivations, through injury and illness, had whittled his frame to a state of emaciation when first I met him. I was happy to sit at the table and keep him company while he ate, but if he thought I was about to overeat to the point of discomfort because tradition demanded it, then he was going to be disappointed. I decided it was better to forewarn him now than to spring this fact on him in the middle of Christmas lunch.

I was about to state my case, but Watson got there before me.

"And to think that this time last year I was eking out a miserable existence in that dull little hotel on the Strand," he was saying. "I felt old, ill, devoid of prospects, and wondering whether my life had any meaning at all. They tried to make the place festive, but all this is just dressing, isn't it? I mean, what is Christmas if you don't have someone to share it with." He beamed at me across the table. "But what a difference a year makes, eh? If someone had told me then that I was going to meet you, Holmes, and that here we would be in Baker Street celebrating Christmas together after a very eventful year, I wouldn't have believed them."

His tone did not invite comment, so I said nothing.

"That's why I thought I would make an effort this year," he went on, gesturing to the burgeoning forest that was threatening to overtake the room. "I don't usually bother, but this year seemed _special_, if you take my meaning."

A long time ago, I told myself that sentimentality had no place in the life of a private consulting detective. Excess emotion clouds the judgement and makes one act in ways that is at odds with one's usual demeanour. I thought I had succeeded in banishing it, in wiping its stain from my character.

How wrong one can be.

Quite on impulse, I decided to ignore my brother's advice. I left the table and collected a bottle from my room, not the cheaper, inferior vintage I had bought earlier, but something of a rather better quality I had been saving for myself. Watson watched with puzzlement that turned to dismay as I placed it on the table.

"What is this?" he asked, colour rising to his cheeks. "A gift? My dear fellow–"

I raised my hand. "Consider it my contribution to this evening. I thought we could share it."

Something of the warmth of earlier returned to his expression. "Well, that is decent of you." He chuckled. "I'll admit, I had entirely the wrong impression of you. I took you for one of those fellows who grumble about Christmas."

"If a man were to complain, then it would be about the unnecessary frippery that the season demands," I said, pulling the cork and filling our glasses. "On the other hand, the _spirit_ of Christmas has much to recommend it."

"How true," said Watson, taking a sip. "We should do this every year, make a habit of it. After all, this what Christmas is all about, don't you agree?"

I took a seat, only to rise again after feeling the sharp prick of a piece of holly. He saw my expression and nodded.

"Well, perhaps less greenery next year." He took another sip. "A fine vintage, this, Holmes. Most thoughtful of you. I must confess I didn't know what to get you, or whether you exchanged gifts at all. Just in case, I did get a small something, nothing to compare to this wine, of course."

I tried not to be surprised when he drew a pair of brass nutcrackers from his pocket and pushed them across the table. Unusually, they were shaped as a pair of woman's legs, complete with boots and stockings, more to his taste than mine. I reflected on Mycroft's advice about the unsuitable gift, and the necessity of buying something that the giver could equally appreciate. As the champion of eccentricity, it would annoy him immensely to know that that he had been trumped by someone he had derided for being 'normal'.

"As we aren't giving gifts," he added, "I thought we could share them."

"Yes," I conceded. "Why not."

As I have said, cold logic has its place, but I am eternally grateful for the blessing of common sense. To walk constantly against the tide is a tiring and lonely business, for there are times when the acceptance of the conventional can be agreeable. Even the most dedicated of curmudgeons must concede there is something to be said for an evening such as this. And that surely is the gift of Christmas.

"If every year is like this one," Watson said contentedly, "then here's to many more of them. Merry Christmas, Holmes."

"Merry Christmas, Watson," I returned. After all, how could anyone argue with that?

**The End**

_**A Belated Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all, with apologies for the delay in updating, due to wind, rain, floods and communication disruptions in the wild and windy UK over Christmas 2013 (and it's still raining!).**_


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